TITTLE-TATTLE OF MR. TEAL
Inspector Teal was that unusual type of man who literally takes both
pride and pleasure in his employment. Mr. Teal loved talking shop,
and would do so for hours on end if he found a listener on whom his
enthusiasm was not wasted.
He was never off duty. His leisure hours would always find him
sauntering round the preserves of other divisions, listening to
gossip in public houses and at coffee stalls, entering queer and
unregistered "clubs," and paying friendly calls on eccentric
gentlemen not unknown to the Records Office. Criminals, to him, were
a race of children--interesting, amusing, and completely human, but
occasionally in need of sharp correction. And when necessity
demanded that they be chastised, he haled them to their punishment
without resentment.
It was his boast that he knew every bad man in London, and he was
probably right.
The morning following his discovery of the Alpha Triangle (already,
with that queer instinct for the dramatic which few would have
suspected beneath his prosaic exterior, he spelt it with capital
letters) Inspector Teal flowed--there is no other word for his
peculiar method of locomotion--in the direction of Kensington, for on
the left-hand side of Church Street, behind a door over which hung
three golden orbs, lived Mr. Eddie--more commonly known as
"Snooper"--Brome.
He was a big, florid, shock-headed man with an alarming taste in
fancy waistcoats. Also the reputation of being a receiver of stolen
goods.
Mr. Teal considered himself lucky to find him in residence, for
Snooper was a man of erratic habits and rarely attended to his
business in person.
"Good morning, Snooper," said Mr. Teal affably. "How's trade?"
"Not too bad," said Snooper--trade, with him, was always either "not
too bad" or "not too good"--"Have a cigar?"
The sample he offered was undoubtedly a weed of great price, and Mr.
Teal sniffed at it suspiciously.
"Who gave you this?" he asked, and Snooper shook his head.
"I cannot," he said unhappily, "get rid of the idea that you suspect
me of being a receiver."
"You might have made a worse guess," said Mr. Teal. "Quite easily.
How are the crooks? Or is 'clients' the correct term? Comrades Lew
and Gat are heading for trouble, you know."
"Don't know 'em," said Eddie.
"Interesting people, very," said Mr. Teal. "Especially the educated
Gat. He has the most cherubic blue eyes. You'd love him." He
stirred in his chair sluggishly. "By the way, Snooper, there's a
friend of mine I'd like to bring along to meet you one day, if you'll
let me know when you're at home. He's interested in criminals."
Mr. Brome shrugged.
"I'm afraid my acquaintance with the criminal fraternity won't help
him. Still," he admitted, "like all pawn--er--financial agents, I
have had stolen property offered to me. Naturally, I immediately
notified the police."
"On two occasions," supplemented Mr. Teal. "And the total value of
the stuff was exactly two pounds five shillings and ten pence."
"I can't help that. I wish it had been more," said Eddie piously.
"I believe you," said Mr. Teal.
He glanced round the room, his heavy-lidded eyes taking in afresh
every familiar detail of unostentatious comfort--even luxury. There
was no suggestion of wealth, but more than a hint of solid
well-being. Looking merely at Snooper's waistcoats, one would never
have suspected their inhabitant of possessing so artistically
furnished a room.
"You do rather well out of pawn--er--financial agenting," remarked
Teal absently, and went off at an abrupt angle. "Are you the
philanthropist who's financing Birdie Sands?"
"Birdie's hands?" inquired the puzzled Mr. Brome.
"Birdie Sands," Mr. Teal enunciated clearly and distinctly. "Strange
as it may seem, I was once educated."
"I have met a _Mister_ Sands. Who's this 'Birdie' Sands?"
"A gentleman," said Mr. Teal, "who used to be on the whizz."
"On _what_?" demanded the startled Snooper.
"A pickpocket," explained Mr. Teal patiently. "Do you know him?"
If Mr. Brome did not squawk derisively, his elevated archidiaconal
eyebrows rendered such a lamentable exhibition unnecessary.
"A low criminal?" he protested. "Now, I ask you, Mr. Teal, is it
likely?"
"Taking things all round, I should say it is. Birdie Sands," went on
the detective, apparently for his own benefit, "is, or was, the best
whizzer operating in London. He was inside up--to about six weeks
ago--that's about twice the time you've been financial agenting,
isn't it, by the way? Since then we've had nothing on him, and he
seems to have all the money in the world."
"He may be going straight," suggested Eddie.
"Go straight?" jeered Teal drowsily. "It's a physical impossibility.
That man's a human corkscrew with all the twists case-hardened. He's
a born crook--his mother was a crook and all his fathers were crooks,
and Birdie was brought up as a crook, Borstal trained. Why, if you
shot him out of a gun he'd tie knots in the barrel."
"What happened to the gun you were shot out of when you got that
face?" inquired Mr. Brome vulgarly, but Inspector Teal failed to bite.
He heaved himself laboriously from his chair.
"I'm interested," he said, "because when a born-an'-bred crook earns
a lot of honest money, it just ain't natural. I've got a nose for
dirty work, and that same nose is worrying me now. When shall I
bring my friend along?"
"Shall we say Sunday?" invited Mr. Brome. "At eight? Suit you?
Splendid. Good-bye."
But he stopped Teal at the door.
"I hope you won't put any ideas into his head," he said anxiously.
Mr. Teal regarded him thoughtfully.
"What I'm afraid of," he replied, "is that he'll put ideas into
yours."
With that his projected programme was exhausted, but he was destined
to have an interesting morning.
On his way back to the Yard he dropped in at Walton Street police
station, near the Brompton Road, for a chat with the
divisional-inspector. While he was there a lank, saturnine man
entered jauntily.
"James Mattock--convict on licence. I've come to report."
Inspector Teal surged across (as I have said, one has to use
extraordinary words to convey his ponderous mode of progression).
"Hullo, Mattock," he said. "When did you come out?"
"A fortnight ago."
Mattock's manner did not encourage further conversation, but it took
a lot to put off Mr. Teal.
"What are you doing now?"
The man's thin lips twisted.
"Working. Do you want to get me the sack by telling them my past
record?" he sneered. "Because if so, you're too late. I thought I'd
get in with it before you busies got a chance."
"I suppose you picked up that word in Wandsworth," said Teal.
"Getting the slang already--a pity. Who are 'them'?"
"Raegenssen's. I'm head clerk and in practice semi-manager. They
haven't got much of a staff."
"That's a pity, too," murmured Mr. Teal. "Temptation never did
anybody any good; and you weren't built for a crook, Mattock."
"I'm glad of that," said Mattock, surveying Mr. Teal's girth
pointedly.
Teal fingered his chin, his eyes on the other man's face. It was a
refined face, lined bitterly. The man was educated--Teal knew that,
for he himself had arrested Mattock for his first and only crime.
Teal also knew what the court that sentenced Mattock for forgery
never knew--why the crime was committed.
"Let's see," mused Teal. "Hannassay put you away."
"That's true."
"A cheque--you were his private secretary, weren't you? And he saw
to it you got the full stretch--not even a first offender's chance.
That's right, isn't it?"
"It is."
Mr. Teal's contemplative fingering of his chin continued. He would
have been better pleased if Mattock had been stung to a storm of
abuse and threats, for the only dangerous criminal is the one who
hugs his grievances.
"You don't love him much, do you?"
"Would you?" countered the other.
"Possibly not," admitted Mr. Teal. "Did they ever recover the money
you drew on that cheque? Six thousand, wasn't it? You must have a
tidy bit put away--why go clerking? Or did Joan throw you over?"
"That's my business," said Mattock icily. "What exactly are you
trying to do, Teal--rub in my disgrace, or persuade me to commit
another crime so that you can make me a thorough old lag?"
Mr. Teal shrugged. His sleepy eyes were nearly closed.
"I'm sorry you're such a fool, Mattock," he drawled. "What I'm
trying to do is to save you from making an utter mess of the rest of
your life."
"Thanks," said Mattock curtly. "And now do you mind going and
preaching to someone else?"
"I will," promised Mr. Teal. "Come along and have lunch, Mattock,
and let's talk things over."
He rolled in to report progress to Storm later, and told of an
unsatisfactory conversation.
"He thawed after a bit, but since he was liquid air to start with he
wasn't much better than an iceberg even then. A card--he was a
gentleman all right, once, and still talks like one. One of the
Somerset Mattocks--they had pots of money once, and then went bust.
Mattock fell in with Joan Sands, Birdie's sister. She got very ill.
The docs. said the only way to save her life was to operate and then
send her to the south of France for a long rest. Mattock couldn't
pay, and Birdie was in stir and never had much money anyway. He was
defiant and insolent in court, otherwise he might have got off a bit
lighter, in spite of all the fuss Hannassay kicked up at the time
about making examples and so on. He's the hottest man in the country
on crooks, and they all hate him like a pussyfoot hates beer. My own
idea is that Mattock begged Hannassay to help him out and was turned
down. Hannassay's as hard as tungsten, in any case."
"What about Snooper?" asked Storm.
Teal flicked his chewing gum through the window and replaced it with
a fresh slab.
"The flavour _doesn't_ last," he remarked with irrelevant irritation.
"Oh, Snooper. We don't know much about him--he's a success so far.
We don't even know where he lives. We had him shadowed once, to find
out, and he spotted the tail and came storming in here swearing he'd
bring a suit against us if it happened again. He'd have won his
case, too--we can't tail people unless we've got anything definite to
justify it. He's only been in business for about three months, and
as far as anyone can prove he's as innocent as the day. What I
_know_ 's another matter--and that is that in three months he's
become the first fence in London."
Storm nodded and pulled out a drawer, from which he took an envelope.
"Some more souvenirs have come in," he said.
One by one he spread out three small white caras on the desk. Each
bore the same symbol in the centre, but the inscriptions differed.
One said simply, "_Harchester_."
"That's your pal Blaythwayt's."
On the second was written, "_March 23rd, 1897_."
"That was received this morning by the Home Secretary, Sir John
Marker," said Storm.
The third similarly bore a date: "_December 2nd, 1899_."
"That one went to John Cardan, editor of the _Record_." Storm's faint
smile played about his lips. "What do you make of it, Teal?"
Inspector Teal shook his head.
"Give me time, sir," he murmured. "A French-English stock-jobber, a
bank manager, a Cabinet Minister, and a newspaper editor. And just
dates, except one which has the name of a place. Where were they
posted?"
"In different parts of London. There's not even a threat, you
notice. Just dates and places, which obviously mean something to the
man who sent 'em, and may mean something to the men who got 'em. I
want you to push off on that trail for the moment, Teal. It mayn't
lead anywhere, but it may. Find out what happened to Marker on March
23rd, 1897, anything important that happened to Blaythwayt at
Harchester, and anything Cardan can remember about December 2nd,
1899."
Inspector Teal sighed.
"That sounds like a lifer to me," he groaned, and picked up his hat
wearily.
He concluded an unproductive round of investigations by spending the
evening at a house in the Finchley Road, where dwelt Joe Blaythwayt,
manager of the Lombard Street branch of the City and Continental Bank.
Joe Blaythwayt was nearly as rotund as himself, but shorter by six
inches. And, whereas Mr. Teal's eyes always seemed to be struggling
with an overpowering desire for sleep, Blaythwayt's were always alert
and twinkling.
These evenings, during which they played piquet and discussed crime
and criminals, detectives and detection (these are four different
subjects) were among the relaxations of Mr. Teal's life. Joe
Blaythwayt had a crimson taste in fiction, and absorbed Mr. Teal's
practical knowledge eagerly.
It is, of course, unusual for a policeman to be the especial friend
of a bank manager; but then, Inspector Teal's friends were a queerly
mixed crowd.
Blaythwayt was reading a novel with a distinctly intriguing cover,
but he put it away on Teal's arrival.
"That book," he said, jerking a disgusted thumb in the direction of
the offending volume, "that book is supposed to deal with the
exploits of a master criminal, and already he's made four mistakes
which even a policeman couldn't miss."
Teal grinned languidly and took his usual chair.
"You'd better write a book yourself and show 'em how to do it."
"I've started!" announced Joe. "Two minds, etcetera. It'll be the
greatest detective story ever written. Everyone will buy it."
"Will anybody publish it?" inquired the practical Mr. Teal.
"How do you get a book published?" asked Blaythwayt.
"Send it to a publisher and enclose enough stamps to pay for him
sending it back," pronounced the detective, and Joe's round face
lengthened as he visualised the sordid difficulties of a literary
career.
But he soon brightened up.
"It'll be great," he enthused. "I'm writing it in the first person,
and I shall commit impossible crimes. I shall never be caught."
"Let's hope not," grunted Teal. "I'd hate having to arrest you.
Besides, crooks are only romantic characters in fiction."
"It'll be in the form of a diary, and----"
"Where are the cards?" asked Mr. Teal slumbrously.
During the intervals of the game, he recounted his experiences of the
day, for Blaythwayt was a great student of contemporary crime. Also,
he delighted his friend by telling him that a real live criminal had
consented to be at home when they called.
"I think you must peeve Snooper," said Blaythwayt. "You do try the
magazine detective stunt--trying to make people think you know
everything."
"Nearly everything," corrected Teal modestly.
"If you know everything you know nearly everything," said Joe
sententiously, and Mr. Teal stared at him.
"You've been going to one of these modern plays," he accused.
"I've been studying the stage with a view to dramatising my book.
That sort of thing goes well. Look at _Raffles_."
"You didn't write _Raffles_," said Mr. Teal crushingly.
They played out two more hands in silence, and then Blaythwayt looked
up brightly.
"At least," he said, "I can stump you."
"Carry on," suggested Teal.
"Who is Christopher Arden?"
"My chief, _pro tem_. He got into Special Branch through the
Assistant Commissioner, and he's all right--you can take that from
me. He's one of these tough young soldiers of fortune. He'll never
settle down. He joined up in the ranks at sixteen, and came out at
the end of the war a captain. Ever met him?"
"No."
"You'd like him. He's big, and strong as they're made. He talks
like a quick-firing gun, and he's got a nerve that'd make a
refrigerator look like a quiet corner in hell. He's one of these
cool, casual devils who could get on to a bus politely during the
rush hour--and get on first!"
"That's off the point," said Blaythwayt, "I know all that. You've
told me about him once before. I didn't ask _what_ he is, but _who_
he is."
"Christopher Arden," said Mr. Teal.
Blaythwayt smiled triumphantly.
"That stumped you! I came across it quite by accident, and if you
hadn't mentioned the name I shouldn't have done anything about it. I
scented a coincidence and I got one. Someone took him out of a
workhouse at the age of two, but who put him in?"
"I'll buy it," said Teal.
"He's got a good bit of money, too, hasn't he? Well, he may have
picked up a bit on his travels--according to you, he's tackled a few
risky and paying jobs--but you can't go pearling or bootlegging or
running revolutions without capital."
"I know that one," murmured the somnambulous Teal. "An uncle died
and left him ten thousand. The solicitors traced him somehow."
"What was the name of the uncle?"
"I don't know, and it isn't my business," said Teal bluntly. "If
Kennedy says a man's all right, he is all right. What are you
getting at, Joe?"
"You ought to play about a bit in Somerset House," said Blaythwayt.
Mr. Teal blinked. It was the only evidence he gave that he was
interested.
On his way home to his modest lodging near Victoria he dropped in at
the Albany to report his discoveries, such as they were. He found
Storm arrayed in a suit of wonderfully jazzed silk pyjamas and a
staggering silk dressing-gown, seated in a comfortable armchair in
front of the open window, his bare feet propped up on the sill and a
slim volume of Kipling on his knees.
"What news, Teal?"
Mr. Teal pulled up a chair and accepted the proffered cigarette.
"Very little," he confessed. "Joe Blaythwayt says he never made an
enemy at Harchester--in fact, he was very popular. Harchester's a
great Rugger school, and Joe used to be a star three-quarter before
he put on weight. Cardan can't remember a thing. Marker's the only
man who could remember anything at all, and all he knew was that in
March, 1897--he can't swear to the exact date--he got into Parliament
at the Clayston bye-election, and got married a week later on the
strength of it."
"It isn't much to go on," Storm admitted ruefully. "I'll talk to
Marker to-morrow. I suppose we can look up who opposed him at
Clayston, though I don't suppose there's much in that. Now look
here."
He reached out for an envelope that lay on the table beside him, and
from it he drew a card which he laid in Teal's hand.
"That came round from the Yard after dinner. Raegenssen brought it
in--got it this afternoon."
The card and the sketch were by this time familiar to Mr. Teal.
Underneath was the legend, "_April 1st, 1928_."
Inspector Teal shook his head.
"There's been a mistake," he said. "That one ought to have come to
me. April the First is my birthday!"